


day(dream) in the life

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Series: it sounds like a whisper [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no betas we die like men, pure self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: Just a normal day for two of Ishgard’s most and least normal citizens.
Relationships: Stephanivien de Haillenarte/Joye
Series: it sounds like a whisper [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1201918
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	day(dream) in the life

If there is just one universal experience in Ishgard, one that has cut across all divisions of class, bloodline, gender, wealth, race, and station, it must be that of waking at some ungodly hour from the sheer _cold_. If not even the Archbishop himselfcan be assured total immunity from everwinter’s chill, then a thriftily-minded working girl hasn’t any chance at all.

Not that the certainty provided Joye with any warmth in consolation—but it meant she was prepared. When a surprise cold snap struck in the predawn and she shivered herself awake, it was with muttered grumbles as she eased herself out of bed, dashed to the trunk at the foot of it, and with shaking hands pulled out a thick, heavy quilt, old enough to be shabby enough that it warranted hiding—not so worn that its warmth wouldn’t redeem it enough nights of the year. So armed against the chill, she huddled back into her bed, waiting for sleep to find her again, and pleased enough to imagine in the interval that his lordship already had.

He wouldn’t fit in her little bed, she knew, but discarded that as irrelevant. The additional weight of extra bedding already had many of the comforting qualities of an embrace—why not imagine more? Why not, if she _must_ spend extra time awake, spend it pleasurably? Consider: arms instead of blankets folded over her shoulders, a shoulder for her pillow, and his breath warmer than draughts, his voice sweeter, gentler than the wind harsh outside, in the eaves or against the glass. She closed her ears against those sounds, instead recalled his words, sweet names and promises, until warmth all through gathered hottest in her core, until the dreams she invited at last came upon her, just softly, briefly before the day itself was to begin.

The acquisition of skills outside of his proper station by now being almost a point of pride for Stephanivien in and of itself, quite independent of their practicality or economy—learning how to cook was a sort of natural next step.

And of course, because any cultured gentleman might develop an interest in the fine art of cuisine, saying that Stephanivien was learning how to cook constituted a quite definite and quite particular definition of the entire endeavor—even a peculiar one. Assuredly no highborn lady or ser ever embarked on culinary curiosity the way he had—but then, neither had any lowborn Ishgardian done so as he had, no matter what Stephanivien might have fancied: after moving a flask of some solution off a burner, he slid into place above that same burner a cast-iron pan, locking it into place as its contents started to sizzle.

Through trial and error, he’d learned that breakfast the way he liked it was not just ordered but kind of an art—yes, he _could_ fix it all up in one skillet (practical! economical!) but juggling the proper addition of ingredients such that nothing was either burned or cold in the middle was beyond the mere collection of different-sized egg-timers he had amassed. It was a sensory art, one he was on the proud road to mastery of. When the sausages began smelling like _so_, add the mushrooms, when the bacon sizzled like _that_, then the tomatoes, and if he could just get the precise hang of the eggs, then he’d have the entire business down.

Maybe then he could move up to finer things, he thought, smiling a little to himself as he filtered precipitate out of the prior solution. A full panful of this prepared him to work the steel and the firing range, but there was more to life than that, and for one, he knew Joye didn’t care for this, and if he were to present her with it—

...well, of course she’d _accept_ it, but it’d be thoughtless, when Stephanivien knew what she liked: cold fruits and warm scones and butter in between, that getting fresh cloud bananas off botanist adventurers in from the Sea of Clouds to put in warm oats could make her entire morning, that if he could convince her to abandon frugality for a quarter-bell she’dtake one of those syrupy waffles that steamed atop a mug of milk tea and...

And wouldn’t it be just the thing, one morning, to surprise her with precisely that? All Joye’s favorites on a tray, awaiting her awakening alongside him at her bedside. Kisses like butter and honey, her pretty mouth smiling and lips swelling even as he watched, as he felt—no rush and no schedule for either of them, only care for keeping clean enough that she wouldn’t kick him out afterwards, that crumbs wouldn’t deter her from lingering with him to—

Ah. Ah, it seemed this morning, perhaps breakfast would be on the crispy side. Hurriedly, Stephanivien doused the burner and pulled the pan’s contents onto a plate—still perfectly edible, just a bit burnt at the edges. A bit of a lesson in concentration, that’s all. And if he wasn’t ready today to move to another level... there was still tomorrow.

It was a truism of the soldiering life during wartime, well-known by even a maidservant like Joye, that days passed with the majority of the time bored stiff and the remaining minority in a state of screaming terror. This was strikingly similar to the experience of waiting on Countess de Haillenarte on days where she played midmorning cards with her friends, though given that she’d not heard of anyone actually losing their lives due to the experience, she refrained from so commenting. Instead, she accepted her tasks as they came, and spent the remaining time awaiting Lapinette’s whims well away from the table itself (so her lady could never be accused of using her favorites to cheat, as had the disgraced Baroness de Rabelocqfort, now four years exiled from card-playing with anyone who mattered).

And it was _interminably_ dull. Sitting or standing with her hands demurely folded in front of her apron, at enough of a distance that she couldn’t follow the games afoot between the noble ladies or catch a glimpse of playing cards, left with silent embroidery, silent knitting, or silent prayer as appropriate occupation (rather “occupation”) for being attendant to an Ishgardian countess at such times... Joye, frankly, really, really could not be blamed for inappropriate preoccupation instead.

Not outwardly so. Of course not. But so long as her rapt contemplation was outwardly serene, no one could take from her the freedom of her own mind, the freedom to daydream beyond this salon and its current inhabitants and purpose, and to imagine _what if, what if_.

And for longer than she would have been prepared to confess to any inquiry, a favorite _what if_ was “What if his lordship were here instead?”—sometimes even “What if his lordship were here as well?”

Not literally, not realistically—_realistically_ that’d be a cause for screaming terror, one of Lapinette’s children interrupting her cards—but... if he were here, if he were quiet, if he used his hands (one of the first things she noticed about him when she first began to notice him that way, the size and shape and dexterity of them)...

If she imagined her skirts being hiked up (from behind—no, from the side today), fingertips over her stockings and up higher—If she imagined her bodice loosened enough by his deft hands to pull her blouse away, accommodate his hands cupping her breasts, toying with their weight, their softness as much as their sensitivity—if in the safety of her imagination where this wasn’t infamy, this was affection, this was love and this was hers alone—

It passed the time until luncheon quite nicely.

In Skysteel Manufactory, Stephanivien was still adjusting to a recent scheduling reform inspired by Garlond Ironworks and how they went about things—a configuration of overlapping shifts and lunch breaks that maximized efficiency, or was supposed to. To be honest, next week he’d probably revert back to the old system and he did not expect it to be greeted with grumbles, even if it did mean more stopping and starting—the long meal breaks would restore morale and camaraderie, he reasoned.

It also would ensure more privacy for him. Now, if he wanted to be alone for any particular side project, it felt like he had to cage himself in an office, which he got quite enough of working normally, thank you—already Stephanivien looked forward to reclaiming his time on the floor during those precious breaks in work. Gods, if he’d had this system in place when—

Well. If he’d had this system in place back then there were already several strikes against those soft early mornings ever occurring in the first place. But most objectionable was to imagine witnesses to that moment on that damned old couch, that such wonderful intimacy would have ended awkwardly, harshly. (Of course, no matter the system, it would’ve had to end, and how it had ended was realistically the best way possible).

(Of course).

(_...Realistically_).

Because if he wasn’t tied up by realism and scheduling and availability and efficiency he knew very well a better way for that morning to have gone, better than his Joye shivering under welding aprons when he could have her warm and trembling under him instead, her hands under his clothes instead of atop them, almost a protection instead of a liability—

_Gods_ but it was good he would be signing out early today, and he’d be sure to sign off on the reversion to the old shift system before he did. So much to do, so little time left to get it perfect.

The uncanniest aspect of the everwinter, in Joye’s estimation, was also its most useful and merciful aspect. While a _natural_ winter would of course have long nights and short days, after the calamity left Coerthas blanketed in snow year-round, the “summer” moons still retained their proper long days and short nights, and spring and autumnal equinoxes were still measured as before. And while naturalists, natural philosophers, and theologians and maybe even more had spilled thousands of bottles of ink discussing this and all the things it might have signified, Joye remained content to enjoy afternoons of pale light that lingered long instead of burning to the ground before the fourth bell; days lit like lamps and pillar-candles, not matchsticks. It meant her dismissal after her ladyship the Countess’s luncheon this afternoon left her with so much _light_ still at her disposal before evening came—light and time, now the most precious gifts imaginable.

...No, light and time, warmth and company. _That_ was the most precious, and she’d not spend the former without the latter, even if—

“...Ear warmers? Ear warmers. For a _viscount_.”

—Hilda had her own opinions about what Joye was up to.

“Frostbite doesn’t distinguish between highborn ears and low.” It came out a bit more primly than Joe had intended, probably due to her simultaneous, unspoken metronomic monologue: _chain three, double in the same stitches, chain three, double in the same stitches, chain_...

“Yeah, but highborn ears distinguish between yarn and lace!” Hilda spoke with her mouth full, gesturing with her sandwich as she did, sitting astride the bench she was sharing with Joye.

“Lace doesn’t keep ears warm.” Now Joye was deliberately being obtuse, but a slight pink blush had risen to her cheeks.

“True,” Hilda conceded, “but has that ever stopped a rich fool? And don’t argue with me,” here she pointed with the crusts, “he _is_ a rich fool.”

“I’m not arguing,” Joye said mildly, “but a rich fool might neglect his ears, might he not?” Hilda only grumbled through the last bite of her sandwich, which Joye knew by now meant she’d won the argument that they weren’t having.

“I suppose it’s a decent enough use to make of the last bits of that yarn,” Hilda said, wiping her fingers on a napkin—not, Joye noticed, on her scarf, still carefully spotless, as red as the little triangles she was working on now. She smiled to herself.

“Decent enough.”

And that was all the breath Hilda deigned to expend on Stephanivien and more, honestly, than Joye had been expecting. She still stayed and chatted as Joye kept working, though—about her work, about the quality of ale at another pub, (the Hoarfrost and Hogsheads had really improved with the change in management, it seemed), asking her advice for a tailoring problem (“Get a new one or punch the old one,” Joye had counseled), brightly recounting a new adventure in the Western Highlands before glumly accounting for boots-related expenditures this moon, and altogether making Joye forget anything dull, hands working on autopilot, until she was finishing the joining and Hilda chanced to look over the ear warmers she had made in their finished state.

“Well, they’ll fit an elezen long of ear,” she observed, and Joye didn’t make note of the careful straight face her friend wore until she was halfway through her response.

“Yes, I think it’s best to err on the larger side, and I wouldn’t go about holding... holding a measuring tape...” Hilda had been deliberately and steadily raising her eyebrows, as Joye’s face slowly then all at once flushed scarlet... then and only then did she burst out into cackling laughter, out loud while Joye giggled into her hands.

The errand had taken much longer than Stephanivien had thought it would, and that on top of a few more delays had him returning to his rooms in a rush already. The sun was going down already, which only gave him a bell and a half to get ready, which did _not_ give him enough time for a proper drawn bath and no matter how well-served he’d be by seeming “common” tonight he would _not_ be going out unwashed, so... washing at the sink it was.

(He _really_ needed to convince the landlord to let him install a shower here. Maybe next weekend).

Before his sink (and thus necessarily before his mirror) he stripped off the gear of machinistry—which would identify him as surely as noble finery, much as he hated to admit it—and set himself to scrubbing before the chill could set in, until his tanned skin glowed even in such thin light—soothe with lotion, evaluating how he looked.

At least, Stephanivien thought, he’d not be mistaken for a knight, the figure of which he’d never managed to attain even when he’d tried. Too boney, no matter what strength he’d possessed—it’d never translated to smooth curves and a musculature that bulged round when flexed, just... corded, and rope-like motion under his skin as he moved. Tailoring the latest fashion to his frame was a nightmare, but—

There. Plain shirt and a red vest under his black coat, that almost-but-not-quite matched a black felt hat—would a scarf be too much? Would he look out of place? Perhaps a bigger one, for the warmth, would look appropriate, and... there. When Stephanivien ruffled his hair and loosened his tie, the man looking back at him from the mirror looked like he only had two names, neither of which were “de Haillenarte.” Not ugly or foolish, not a caricature... just a man, he hoped. A man, holding a bag from a carefully-chosen chocolatier (as much for their price-point as their staff’s discretion in general and one young woman in particular taking mercy on him this afternoon, explaining what he needed to consider), looking nervous and hopeful and happy all at once—should be one of a gil-a-dozen tonight.

And this was the safest way to go about this, but still—still, something in Stephanivien, so deeply instilled that it rubbed up on animal instinct rebelled at this, not for his sake but for _hers_. Joye deserved the world on a platter, she deserved silk and velvet, liqueur and piles of confectionary, to be waited on hand and foot and if he could only convince her—

—Oh if he could convince her to play the part she deserved, to be a fine lady, made up beautiful and luxurious, he’d be the first man to demonstrate how she ought expect to be treated, and nothing would get him off his knees for her, her on her back, her legs over his broad shoulders, petticoats and stockings meeting gloves and ties.

But first...

Under the emerging stars, with the last orange shades of sunset a fading memory, a cross-slice of Ishgard’s people only somewhat narrower than that bedeviled by cold beds at night gathered around a fountain plaza—one converted, just for the weekend, from a fountain to a skating rink. If you didn’t own your own skates, rentals went as low as three gil a bell, if you hadn’t brought your own hot food and drinks, a throng of men, women, and children were pleased to sell a veritable feast of paper-wrapped treats, and if you had been careless enough to leave a partner behind, you could find one of those easily enough as well.

His lordship, though, was easy for Joye to spot—not for some innate nobility, simply looking amongst the tallest men for long blond hair made it much easier. He was waiting for her near a skate rental, and the spark of recognition in his eyes when he caught sight of her was a contagious happiness, bringing a girlish smile to her lips as she made her way through the crowd to him.

“I wasn’t expecting this kind of crowd,” he said to her, and she resisted the condescending impulse to pat his sleeve. “Next time I must escort you, my dear.”

Like a real courtship? Joye shivered. “That’s not necessary, ser, but—these might be.” Bravely she pressed her hands to his, and left in his gloved palm two red knitted ear warmers. To her relief, he was obviously delighted, and put them on even as he chided her she didn’t need to bring _him_ gifts.

“It’s only fair, when you’ve brought me a present.” He couldn’t fool her—there was nothing else a little chocolatier’s bag at an event like this could contain.

“I suppose,” Stephanivien conceded, but with a broad smile on his face. “Go on—open it.” He handed it over, and despite any private misgivings Joye had about frozen candy, she looked inside and—

“Hot cocoa!” The better sort—not a powder, but proper drinking chocolate, to be dissolved in hot milk...

“I thought it’d be warming, after an evening out,” his lordship explained, squeezing her hand.

“Yes, afterwards...” Joye leaned against him, already rosy-cheeked from the chill, and her smile was knowing.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m practicing being brave, which for me looks like working faster and more self-indulgently.


End file.
